The Killer (2 page)

The sun was low in the sky when he opened his eyes again and a quick glance at his watch confirmed that he was late.
‘Fuck, wake up you stupid idiot, you’re not gonna make it.’
He set off walking quickly down Nansen Street, but as he reached the junction he knew he could never make up the time at this pace.
Once onto the Falls Road he started to run, which in Belfast was not a healthy thing to do.
Most runners seen on these streets were running away from something - like a shooting, or a bombing.
They were definitely not taking their evening jog.

Running was something Darren rarely did.
He never liked to run to, or away from, anything or anyone - but this was different.
This evening he was running to meet some scary people.
Not the type of scary people he’d fight with in Belfast’s pubs and bars, these were
really
scary people and he didn’t want to be late for the meeting.
When he reached the pick up point he checked his watch and he’d made it with five minutes to spare.
‘Thank God for that,’ he whispered.

As he sat on the pavement and waited he noticed four other young men.
Briefly they made eye contact, but quickly broke it, each one finding a new spot on which to lock his gaze.
These young men had all volunteered and they had individually been told the number one rule, ‘Do not talk to anyone, ever.’
Though still sweating, Darren began to relax a little.
He lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs.

A Transit van pulled up.
A short, fat man climbed out of the passenger side, moved to the rear of the van and opened its back doors.
Eyeing the five waiting men he stared at them in turn.
When he finally spoke, the briefness of his instruction only served to underline his command.
‘Get in!’

They all climbed in and took a seat.
‘No talking,’ the man hissed.
‘I hear anyone utter a fucking word - and they don’t make it.’
Opening his jacket a little for effect, they each caught a glimpse of the pistol he showed them.
Inwardly Darren shivered.

The journey was interrupted four times and the other men were dropped off at stages along the route until Darren was the only one left in the vehicle.
A short drive on rough roads followed and, as the van came to a final, abrupt stop, he could hear shouting.
A moment later and the rear doors swung quickly open.
Darren had arrived in darkness.
Though he had been told he was to be sent to Derry,
 
the pitch black of the night left him with absolutely no idea where he was.
He could’ve been anywhere really.
But he knew he was still in Ireland: he could feel it.

‘Out now!’
Someone unseen barked the order to him.
Climbing out of the van Darren stood trying to survey his new home.
‘Not much to look at,’ he thought, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom.
Then he was blinded again, as a bright light shone directly into his face.

‘Welcome to Derry, McCann,’ the man said in a deep County Armagh accent.
‘You’re in the Provos now,’ he announced as he inspected the new recruit.
Darren sprang to attention until the voice eventually ordered, ‘OK, follow me son.’

Darren did as he was told, following the man into a dark old barn.
As they entered the man reached out and flicked a switch, illuminating the area, and Darren’s eyes widened in surprise.
Though from the outside it looked like any old farm building, the interior looked anything but.
It was spotlessly clean and on the concrete floor stood four long tables, each covered in a green tarpaulin.
The man pointed to the corner of the room at three doors.
‘Your room is the last one on the left,’ he informed him.
Then he turned to leave with a friendly ‘goodnight’, and Darren was alone.

When he entered his room, Darren was pleasantly surprised to see a small stove, a kettle, a fridge - and a bed.
He opened the fridge door and stood smiling, whispering, ‘Thank God for that.’
He’d not eaten for many hours and the sight of bread, bacon, eggs and milk made his mouth water.

As he swallowed the last of his sandwich and drained the remainder of his tea, he burped loudly and crawled slowly into bed.
This had been one very long day.

The following morning his dreams were interrupted by a loud crash and bright, blinding light as the door flew open and banged into the wall.
‘Up and dressed McCann,’ he heard Mr. County Armagh shout.
Darren jumped from his bed and immediately drew in his breath as the cold assaulted him.
It was freezing.
Following a rushed wash in icy water he quickly dressed and hurried to the main area of the barn.
There he found the man waiting for him, clothed in camouflage gear.
Darren jumped to attention and offered his best salute.

‘Relax lad,’
 
the man told him, a friendly smile on his face.
‘I don’t know what you were expecting, but marching up and down all day like toy soldiers is not what’s done here.’

Darren lowered his arm.
‘So, where is here and what, exactly, is done then?’ he asked.

‘We’re close to the Derry area, or thereabouts son.
That’s all you need to know about where we are.
And here we, or rather I, will train you to fight and to kill.
Here you’ll learn how to kill in the most effective manner possible.’
The man smiled.
‘My name is Collins,’ he added.

‘Am I the only one here Mr. Collins?’ Darren asked as he scanned the room, looking for other recruits.

‘Yes son, there is only ever one person here at a time.
The training is done on a one on one basis.
And, by the way, the name’s Collins.
Not Mr., not Captain - just make it Collins.’

‘OK then - Collins, what’s first?’

‘First son, I need to know a little about you.
Why are you here, and what are you good at?’ he asked his latest recruit as he poured two cups of tea.
‘Milk and sugar?’ he offered with another smile.

Darren wasn’t sure what he had expected, but sitting and chatting over a nice warm brew definitely wasn’t it, not that he was complaining.
The chat grew dark, though, as he filled Collins in on his mam’s murder.
Then, clenching his fists, he told him what he did well.
Basically, this boiled down to fighting, and winning.

‘So, you’re here for revenge then eh lad?’

‘Aye, that I am.
I joined to kill those Shankill bastards, every one of them,’ he spat.

‘I’ve read your report,’ Collins confirmed.
‘It says you’re a good street fighter lad.
A hard case, good with your fists - but fists against bullets is not the way I’d want to go.’

‘It’s not just my fists,’ Darren assured him, ‘I’ll use anything I can find to put a man down; bottles, bricks, knives – anything.’

‘Guns?’ asked Collins.

‘No, sir, I’ve never even held a gun.
Promised my mammy that I wouldn’t get involved in any shootings you see.’

‘But now she’s gone, and you want to learn, eh lad?’

‘Aye, that I do.
I want to learn everything you can teach me,’ he replied seriously.

‘Right, have you finished your tea?
Then let’s start laddie,’ Collins commanded as he stood, pulling the tarpaulin from one of the smaller tables.
‘This,’ he picked up a gun, ‘is a Browning .45 automatic pistol.’

The remainder of the day was spent with lessons repeated over and over, stripping, rebuilding and firing an assortment of small handguns.
Darren studied hard, copying the man with every breakdown and rebuild of each weapon.
At every procedure Collins would stare him directly in the face, firmly reminding him of his favourite saying: ‘Clinical cleanliness always, son.’

That mantra, Collins informed him, had been drilled into the head of many a raw recruit who had passed through his hands.
‘To the best of my knowledge, lad, it has served them all well.’
Then he continued, driving the fact into Darren’s head, constantly reminding him that, ‘It’s the only way to go - any dirt in any firearm, especially an automatic, can result in a jam - and a gun jamming on you will probably cost you your life.’

The following morning began in exactly the same manner as the previous one.
First the tea - then the chat.
As he sipped his tea Collins glanced over the cup.
‘So, you want to have a go at the Shankill boys do you lad?’
Darren nodded enthusiastically.

‘But, you are aware that The Butchers take their orders from the U.V.F. aren’t you?’

Again, Darren nodded.
‘Of course I am.’

‘Then you need to broaden your outlook a little son,’ advised Collins.
‘It’s not just The Butchers who are responsible,’ he explained patiently.

‘It is for me,’ replied Darren.

Collins, reclining a little in his seat, took a deep breath, then in a softer tone explained, ‘Look son, we’re not just fighting The Butchers or U.V.F.
 
you know.
We’re fighting the fucking lot of them.
The U.D.A., The U.V.F. and the Brits - everyone.
It wasn’t just one group that killed your mam, it was all of them - they’re all the same.’

Glancing up at Collins, Darren frowned at him in an effort to clarify his reasons.
‘I know that, but it was The Butchers who murdered mammy, and that’s who I want.’

‘But where do you think The Butchers get their finance from son?
Their arms, their ammo, their finance, their intelligence - they’re supplied by the fucking U.V.F.
And they, in turn, are supplied by the fucking British Government.
It’s each and every single loyalist paramilitary outfit we’re fighting.
And the biggest threat of all comes directly from the Brits.
Without support from the British there would be no threat - without the British support your mam would probably still be alive.’

He’d never thought about it in this way.
The man’s words started making sense to him and, for the briefest of seconds, Darren’s eyes began watering a little.
Quickly he blinked the tears away before looking back at his instructor.
‘If you really want someone to blame for your mother’s murder - look no further than the British: they’re your real enemy,’ Collins told him.
‘Because ultimately the blame for her death lies with them - can you see that now son?’
At the slight nod from his pupil he changed the subject, noting the sadness in the lad’s face.
‘Anyhow, enough of all that, let’s get on and make a start on today’s training.’
Striding over to another table he dragged the tarp off and announced, ‘Today, bolt action rifles, shotguns and assault rifles.’

This specialist arms training continued for six more, very long, weeks.
As he neared the end of the course Darren was happy to find that he could efficiently field strip, clean and reassemble virtually any firearm presented to him.

‘Well done lad,’ Collins announced as Darren completed his last rebuild, ‘but, you do realise that it won’t always be daylight when you need to strip a weapon don’t you?’

Confused, Darren stared at his trainer.
‘Well, aye, but how do you mean?’ he asked.

Collins pulled a long, black piece of cloth from his pocket as he told him, ‘Now, do it again - but this time do it blindfolded.’

‘Bollocks,’ thought Darren, but Collins had already covered his eyes in one swift movement.

Now, unable to see anything at all, Darren sat and listened to his instructor.
‘I need you to tell me the manufacturer, type and firing rate of this weapon.
I need to know the ammunition it uses, which mag it fits, how many rounds per mag.
You are then to strip, clean and rebuild it.
Then, make it ready for firing.’

He couldn’t believe this.
Sure what the man said made sense, but fuck, this seemed impossible.
Still, he attempted to field strip the rifle - using only his sense of touch.
The total blackness hampered him, to say the least, and he made a total mess of it.

‘Practice, practice and more practice lad.
You need to recognise any weapon at hand, by feel alone - you’ll get it.’

Two weeks later and Darren sat, blindfolded but with a beaming grin on his face, as he completed the last rebuild of the day.
Now he could tell Collins everything about any weapon.
From its size, weight and smell he knew each one individually as they were handed to him, one after the other.
He knew them all and he could distinguish the individual ammo each weapon used.
Darkness had become his friend.